The Woman
by BlueMoonOnTheRise
Summary: ...but not Irene Adler. Rather, one 'Joan Watson', and why she shouldn't be. Crackfic. Inspired by recent 'Elementary' casting.


**The US version of **_**Sherlock – 'Elementary'**_** – has got a female, Joan Watson. Which resulted in this. I'll let you decide whether or not that was a good thing.**

When John bounded downstairs that morning, fully dressed, sleeves rolled up, and a distinctly determined grin on his face, Sherlock knew there was going to be trouble.

For one, it was a Saturday. Unless Sherlock dictated otherwise, John always slept in on a Saturday, half-falling down the stairs at some point in the afternoon to complain about what was in the fridge and watch TV.

His new attire worried the detective too. The standard jeans and jumper combination were significantly tighter than usual, and Sherlock highly doubted it was possible for someone to put on that much weight overnight – therefore the only possible conclusion was that John was wearing tighter clothes than usual…tighter clothes with alarming, plunging necklines.

Oh – and _he_ was no longer a 'he'. John Watson was a short, very curvy woman, with ash-blonde hair tucked behind his ears. Her ears. Oh _lord._

This imposter bustled into the kitchen, and begun to search for breakfast. Sherlock suddenly wished he'd thought to move the arm. Woman-John was actually scarier than normal-John.

In fact, whilst John was berating him for not buying museli, Sherlock ground his teeth, and listed the many reasons why he much preferred his usual (male) flatmate.

Women, he found, were either intrinsically ridiculous and stubborn, or sickeningly shy and often enamoured with him. Thankfully, John looked as though he were going to fit into the first category, although that wasn't saying much when Sally Donovan also belonged there.

No! John wanted him to call him Joan. _Joan_! Not a chance in hell. No.

On second thoughts, John's slaps were hard and painful.

Sherlock skulked away and curled up in the armchair to sulk. Mercifully, the chair still smelled like John and had not yet acquired his counterpart's flowery aroma. Sherlock settled himself in a ball, closed his eyes, and tried to block out his flatmate's unsatisfactory replacement.

A few hours later the detective woke to the sharp smell of disinfectant. He wrinkled his nose and sat up slowly, blinking in the light.

The flat looked wrong.

Very wrong.

"John!" he yelled, leaping from the chair indignantly and sprinting upstairs. He didn't bother knocking on his flatmate's door, barging straight into the room, furious.

"Joan," the other man – woman – corrected him calmly, looking up from her book. Dark lashes blinked twice over her wide blue eyes. Sherlock wanted to slap her.

"What have you done?" he demanded, throwing himself down onto the end of the bed in disgust, glaring. "Where is my stuff? What have you done to the flat?"

"I cleaned it," John replied waspishly, setting down his book, and sighing. "It's a bloody mess, and somebody had to do it."

Sherlock scowled, and got back up.

"I hate you as a woman," he told John, reaching out a hand for the door handle. "I'm glad you're usually a man, and I hope to God you change back soon."

...

Sherlock's bad mood lasted all day. John wouldn't allow him out to go to the morgue 'it's not fair on poor Molly, you know she's smitten with you', nor would he allow him to experiment with what materials had survived the morning's purge 'I just cleaned this place!". By the time darkness began to fall, Sherlock was wondering whether a day in the company of Sally Donovan would have been more bearable, or if he'd be severely punished if he locked John in a box until he turned back into a male.

"John's a woman," he told Mrs Hudson miserably, taking a gulp of the tea she'd made him, and sighing.

"It's alright, dear," she told him, rubbing his back comfortingly. "Everything will be alright tomorrow, I'm sure."

"I hope so," Sherlock agreed. "He's a horrible woman."

Mrs Hudson chuckled sympathetically, and Sherlock concluded that all females should be like her.

...

The next morning he ventured back upstairs nervously, a little afraid of what he'd find.

He had never been more pleased to see his familiar John, lounging in his armchair and drinking tea, and thankfully, gloriously, his normal self.

"Why's the flat so clean?" he asked, bewildered, as Sherlock flung himself at him, pinning him down with a very relieved hug.


End file.
